Dulce et Decorum est
by xxwanderlustdreamingxx
Summary: My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori. A Stefan Salvatore one shot inspired by a photo of him in a soldier's uniform. Part of the Darkest Before the Dawn universe.


His brother had made it seem so easy. He looked the picture of innocence and bravery in his Confederate uniform in 1864. Doing the right thing, doing the honorable thing. Making their father proud.

There was honor back then, in serving your country.

How things had changed.

This was a different war, in a different time, fought between two very different sides.

He'd gone to war in the hopes of having a regular feed. His insatiable lust for blood and for the frenzy and adrenaline rush that came with killing made him the perfect candidate for the American forces joining the war. He could feed on the enemy. It was perfect; feed, and serve his country while doing so.

With his charm and his charisma, he'd been quickly accepted into the brotherhood that was his unit. It was easier than he thought it had been. His good looks made him a hit with the women as well, as Damon had predicted it would when he shared his idea with him.

Back when they were still talking.

But he never thought he'd come to hate war. What it represented. What it involved. How it made him feel.

_Bent double, like old beggars under sacks…_

His unit was a mess. They'd been through the horrors of the Western Front together, had fought the Germans through thick and thin, in the most obscene weather you could possibly imagine.

It wasn't like that in America.

And so their march had begun. The Germans were smart, their Field Marshal's nothing short of brilliant. In a last desperate battle, they had been forced to abandon their posts.

They were losing.

_Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through the sludge. Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs._

He could hear everything. The hacking coughs of dying soldiers as they spat up phlegm and blood and bile. The groans of fallen comrades, or those lucky enough to be borne on stretchers.

The crying of a young boy, wishing he was home. Wishing that he had never faked his age to be here. Wishing that he could take back what he had seen, what he had done. What he was experiencing.

And in the distance the constant drone of airplanes, the whining of shells as they plummeted through the sky. And the constant clatter of guns at their backs.

He might have been a vampire, but even he was feeling the weariness setting in, the cold biting into his bones as his boots sank into the snow. At least he still had boots.

Would it be possible for him to freeze to death? What would happen? Would his body desiccate, or would it be remarkably preserved, only to thaw in the spring time?

He wasn't sure that he wanted to know.

_Many had lost their boots, but limped on, blood-shod_

Blood, blood everywhere. Seeping from wounds, splattering on the snow. Being coughed up from a soldier's lungs as he lay dying in the cold and in the darkness.

Alone. Alone. Alone.

He never thought he'd find blood repulsive.

_Gas! Gas! Quick boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling…._

His reflexes were quicker than many; he could hear the rumbling of the airplane before others could even spot it. Even in the darkness it stood out clear as day.

He knew it was coming. He might not have needed it, but it couldn't hurt to keep up appearances. So he had smoothly slipped the gas mask on, a movement he had perfected hundreds of times in random drills throughout the day. You never know when you might need it after all.

In vain, he looked around for his closest friend.

_Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, as under a green sea I saw him drowning…_

His name was Carter. He was young, so so young. Only 17 years old. In another time, in another place, they would have been inseparable. Brothers in everything but blood.

He could only watch in mute horror as the young boy struggled with his mask, before it fell out of his hands, bouncing against the snow with a chilling finality.

He could only lunge forward, cradling the boy's shivering body in his arms, watching and feeling his life force fade away. Could only hold the boy firmly to his chest as he gasped for breath, his face turning blue with the lack of oxygen.

There was no honor in this, in this senseless killing and fighting over insignificant pieces of land. There was no honor in sending young men off to war on what would become a suicide mission.

There was no honor.

Carter's lips struggled in vain to form the words he so wanted to say, but his body betrayed him and with a final jerk he went limp. And so he had bowed his head, in shame and in regret.

How could he have been so deluded?

On a dark winter's night on the Western Front, something within Stefan Salvatore changed.

_Dulce et Decorum Est. Pro patria mori._

Lies. It was all a lie.

* * *

**A/N: This was inspired by the photo of Stefan in a soldier's uniform. My second one shot. This poem has been one of my favorites for a while and i've been dying to use it in some sort of context! Forgive me if there's any glaring grammatical errors, this was written at 1am in the morning when i couldn't sleep.**

**Roughly translated= Dulce et Decorum est. Pro Patria mori= It is sweet and right to die for your country...  
**


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